Theodore Nott,, Harry Potter
Summary: Theodore Nott x FemÂĄReader,, Theodore Nott, the school's heart-throb finds himself falling for the maneater of Hogwarts. The two develop a rocky relationship that leads to a catastrophe.
TW: Angst,, Sexual Innuendos,, Toxic Relationships
Based off "I Miss You, I'm Sorry" by Gracie Abrams
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The first time Theodore Nott really notices her, itâs raining.
Not the dramatic kind of rain that demands attentionâno thunder, no lightning, just a quiet, miserable drizzle that clings to everything like regret. Heâs tucked under the awning outside the courtyard, flicking his wand at a damp cigarette he doesnât even want to smoke, when she walks by with her hair soaked and a laugh on her lips that doesnât belong in this kind of weather.
Thereâs a boy beside her. Of course there is. Thereâs always a boy beside her.
Sheâs wearing that short skirt she always gets away with, and her jumperâs slipping off one shoulder, collarbone peeking through like an invitation. She doesnât care that sheâs drenched. Doesnât care that the boy is trying too hard or that her shoes are probably ruined. Sheâs glowing in the way girls like her doâburning just fast enough to take someone down with her.
Theodore watches her like someone watching a fire they canât decide whether to run from or jump into.
He knows about her. Everyone does. Sheâs the reason three Hufflepuff boys donât talk anymore. The girl who turned down an eighth-yearâs love confession in front of the whole Great Hall. The one who once kissed a boy in the library and hexed him the next day for telling his friends about it. A hurricane with eyeliner wings and lips that taste like cherry gum and cruelty.
Sheâs everything heâs not supposed to want.
Not in the way the others do. Not in the âI can fix herâ or âIâll be the one she keepsâ kind of way.
He wants to understand her. To figure out why someone so loud can look so empty when she thinks no oneâs watching. Why she always touches people like sheâs trying to remember them but never lets them stay long enough to leave a mark.
He starts seeing her everywhere after that.
Not because sheâs suddenly more presentâsheâs always been there, floating from group to group, owning rooms without tryingâbut because he starts paying attention. The way she always lingers behind after class, dragging her fingers along desks like theyâve wronged her. The way she hums songs under her breath when sheâs bored, ones he doesnât recognize. The way she locks eyes with people when she talks, like itâs a dare.
And then one day, she looks at him.
Just looks. A second too long, a flicker of something in her gaze that makes his breath hitch. Like she sees him. Like sheâs known all along that heâs been watching.
The next day, she sits beside him in the library.
No words, no greeting. Just slides into the seat across from him, kicks her feet up on the chair beside his, and starts reading. He doesnât say anything. Doesnât ask why.
He just hands her the spare quill she forgot to bring, and pretends not to notice the way her fingers brush his a second too long.
Heâs careful after that. Careful not to fall too fast. Careful not to make the mistake the others madeâbelieving she could be caught. He doesnât try to own her, or tame her, or ask her to be anything sheâs not.
He just lets himself want her, quietly.
Even when it starts to hurt. Even when she disappears for days and comes back smelling like someone elseâs cologne. Even when she kisses him in an empty corridor one night and says, âDonât make this a thing,â before walking away like nothing happened.
He doesnât stop. Heâs already in too deep. And the worst part? He doesnât even want to climb out.
She notices him before he notices her.
Well, before he lets himself notice her.
Theodore Nott is the kind of boy who pretends not to care about anything, and maybe that works on most people. But not her. She knows his type too well. The ones who wear detachment like armor and keep their secrets stitched into their collars.
He thinks heâs unreadable.
She sees it in the way he looks at herâlike heâs trying not to. Like heâs doing her the favor of keeping his distance. But he watches her. She knows. Catches him sometimes in the corner of her eye, all brooding and beautiful and pretending it means nothing.
Heâs a whore, too. Just quieter about it.
He doesnât flirt loud like the Gryffindors do. He doesnât brag. He doesnât beg. He lets girls come to himâlets them fall for the mystery, the cheekbones, the dark eyes that donât promise anything but feel like everything.
And he kisses like heâs doing you a favor.
Like youâre the lucky one.
It makes her want to ruin him.
Not because she hates him. No, that would be too simple.
She just wants to know what he looks like when heâs not in control.
Because he always is, isnât he?
Leaning against walls like he owns gravity. Answering questions in class like he barely bothered to try. Speaking soft and slow like the world owes him silence so he can be heard.
She hates that she thinks about him.
Hates that one stupid glance in the corridor turned into weeks of wondering. Of remembering the way his fingers look stained with ink, the way he tilts his head when heâs trying not to laugh. She doesnât even know what heâs laughing at, but she wants to be the reason for it.
Sheâs not supposed to want anyone.
Sheâs supposed to be untouchable, above it, untouched even if sheâs been touched. Thatâs the game. Look, but donât reach. Kiss, but donât feel.
The first time he kisses her, itâs not careful. Itâs not slow. Itâs not soft.
Itâs messy. All teeth and hands and something desperate beneath the surface.
And he doesnât say anything after. Just looks at her like he dares her to make it mean something.
She doesnât. Not out loud.
But she can still feel him on her lips three days later.
So, yeah. Maybe she breaks hearts, and maybe they deserve it.
But heâhe makes her want to stay.
Heâs just like her. And she knows how the story ends when itâs people like them.
They donât fall in love.
They fall apart. Loudly. Beautifully.
And they drag each other with them on the way down.
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The libraryâs empty, except for them, and she doesnât even remember why sheâs there anymore. Some essay due, some excuse to sit across from him like theyâre not both pretending this isnât a thing. Heâs leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out under the table, tapping his quill against the wood like heâs bored, or restless, or both.
She hates how beautiful he looks under this lighting. All shadows and indifference. Like he was drawn in charcoal and never meant to be touched.
They havenât kissed in days. Havenât said much either, which is worse.
Then, casually, like itâs nothingâlike heâs asking for a quill or what time it isâhe says,
âSo. Do you want to go out with me?â
Thatâs it. Thatâs the sentence. No grand speech. No emotion. Just that flat, half-lazy tone he uses when he doesnât want to sound like he gives a shit.
She leans back in her chair, arms crossed, trying not to let her heart beat out of her goddamn chest.
âYou mean, like⌠a date date?â
âI mean, unless youâd rather sneak around and pretend we hate each other until one of us dies from repression.â
She hates how her lips twitch into a smile.
âThat almost sounds romantic.â
âIâm nothing if not charming.â
She rolls her eyes, looks away for a second just to breathe. Because she hadnât expected this. Not really. Not from him. Sheâd expected to keep dancing around each other until it imploded.
But thisâthis was worse. This was hope.
âYouâre serious?â she asks, softer now. âYou actually want this to be a thing?â
He tilts his head, and for once, thereâs no smirk. No mask. Just him.
âI already like you,â he says simply. âMight as well make it hurt properly.â
She laughs, quick and surprised, and suddenly everything feels too bright. Too real.
She just stands, grabs her bag, and pauses beside his chair long enough to lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth. Slow. Soft. The kind of kiss that means Iâll show up.
Then she pulls back, meets his eyes, and says,
âPick me up at seven.â
And just like that, the game ends. Or maybeâit finally begins.
Thatâs the first thing that shocks her. Not because she thought heâd be lateâTheodore isnât carelessâbut because heâs the kind of boy whoâs always slightly out of reach. Always a few minutes too cool, too detached, too untouchable. But tonight, heâs waiting outside the Slytherin common room at exactly seven oâclock, dressed in all black with his hands in his pockets and that bored expression sheâs come to realize means heâs nervous.
âYou look like youâre going to a funeral,â she says as she approaches, smirking.
He looks her up and down slowly, eyes catching on her bare shoulders and the gloss on her lips. âIf I die tonight, at least Iâll have seen that dress first.â
She hates how easily he makes her smile. Like itâs not dangerous. Like it doesnât mean anything.
âWhere are you taking me?â she asks, arms crossed.
He tilts his head. âWouldnât you like to know.â
She rolls her eyes, but follows.
He leads her through a hidden passageway near the Charms corridor, and sheâs already mocking him under her breathâhow original, a secret tunnelâuntil they reach a rooftop above the greenhouses, spelled dry and warm despite the chill in the air.
Thereâs a blanket spread out, a floating lantern hovering nearby for light, and a little box of chocolate frogs and smuggled-in butterbeer between two glasses.
âDid youâdid you plan this?â
He shrugs, looking anywhere but at her. âDonât flatter yourself. I just like good views.â
âMhm,â she says, sitting down beside him. âSo this is a casual hangout. With chocolate. And lighting. And alcohol.â
âYouâre the one who said you didnât want anything serious,â he mutters, handing her a bottle.
âAnd youâre the one who asked me out.â
Then he sighs, quiet, almost annoyed. âFine. I planned it.â
Heâs not looking at her, not yet. Just sipping his butterbeer and staring out across the dark lawn, like heâs waiting for her to ruin it.
And maybe she should. Maybe she will.
Because the view is nice.
Because he remembered she likes chocolate frogs.
Because his leg keeps brushing hers and he doesnât pull away.
Because sheâs never been on a real date, not one that felt like it was made just for her, not one that didnât come with conditions.
And this? This doesnât feel like a trap.
âYouâre not as cool as you think you are,â she says after a while, tone light.
He finally glances at her. âThatâs rich, coming from you.â
She smiles, smaller this time. Real.
They sit like that for a long time. Talking. Bickering. Telling stories theyâve never said out loud. He tells her about the time he accidentally blew up a cauldron and blamed Draco. She tells him about the first time she kissed someone and how she laughed halfway through it.
They laugh a lot, actually.
And itâs easy. For once, itâs easy.
Because at some point, the silence settles again, and theyâre sitting too close, and his eyes flick down to her mouth just a second too long.
He kisses her slow. Like heâs figuring it out as he goes. Like heâs not sure if sheâll let him stay.
But she kisses him back, and when she pulls away, she doesnât make a joke or throw up a wall.
She just says, softly, âDonât make this a one-time thing.â
He looks at her like heâs surprised sheâd admit that.
Then, even softer: âWouldnât dream of it.â
She doesnât change. Not for him. Not for anyone.
She still wears her skirts too short and her lips too red, still laughs too loud at things that arenât funny just because it unnerves people. She still touches arms when she talks, still flirts without meaning to, still walks into rooms like she owns the air in them.
And Theo, gods, Theo hates how much he loves it.
Loves how she makes everyone turn their heads. Hates the knot it pulls tight in his chest. Hates how good she is at pretending none of it matters when she slides into his lap later, smelling like expensive perfume and attention.
Sometimes he thinks itâs all a game. That maybe she likes making him jealous just to feel wanted. Sometimes he thinks heâs the only one reading between the lines, while sheâs still scribbling outside the margins.
But then there are moments.
Tiny ones. Half-second things.
Like when she reaches for his hand under the table and threads her fingers through his like sheâs not even thinking about it. Like itâs natural. Like itâs theirs. Or when sheâs laughing with someone else and looks over her shoulderâjust to find him. Just to make sure heâs still watching.
And sometimes, he swears she knows that.
They donât talk about exclusivity. They donât talk about love. Thereâs an understanding, unspoken and heavy, thick as fog between them. He doesnât ask who sheâs texting when she smirks at her phone. She doesnât ask where heâs been when he shows up with a scratch down his neck and a bitter look in his eyes. But they always come back to each other. Always. Like orbiting stars caught in the same gravitational pull.
It gets worse before it gets better.
One night, she shows up at his door wearing someone elseâs sweater, hair damp from rain, mascara smudged and unapologetic. He doesnât say anything. Just steps aside and lets her in.
She drops the sweater on his floor like it means nothing. Like that boy didnât touch her skin, didnât maybe try to kiss her in the dark, didnât try to reach places only Theo has ever seen.
He kisses her like a fight. Hands in her hair, mouth rough, like heâs trying to erase the memory of whoever she was with before. She lets him. Clings to him like sheâs trying to be undone. Thereâs a desperation in the way she holds him that she never says out loud. A silent scream under every kiss.
After, they lie in his bed, tangled up in sheets and silence, the air between them thick and heavy.
She traces the freckles on his chest, eyes fixed on them like theyâre a map out of this mess.
âIâm not good at this,â she whispers finally.
He doesnât ask what this is. Doesnât want to make her say it. âI know,â he says. And itâs enough. For now.
Because the thing isâshe still flirts, and he still watches. She still breaks hearts, and he still hopes she never breaks his. She still burns too bright, and he still gets too close, every time.
But sometimes, when no one else is looking, she looks at him like heâs the only boy in the world.
And that? Thatâs the part he holds onto. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
It wasnât supposed to get this far.
Theodore Nott was supposed to be just another name. Just another pair of hands, another mouth to kiss when the night felt too quiet. He was supposed to fall like the rest of them didâhard, fast, and foolish.
He was different from the start.
He didnât chase her. Didnât look at her like she was something to win or tame. He saw her, really saw her, in a way that made her skin crawl and settle all at once. And that scared her. Because when someone sees you like thatâknows the mess beneath the lipstick and charmâwhatâs left to hide behind?
She hated how he made her feel safe.
Worse, she hated how she started to want that safety.
With Theo, everything is unspoken. Undefined. They orbit each other like something cosmic, magnetic. Some days, itâs perfectâeffortless, electric. Other days, itâs war. Cold shoulders and sideways glances. Half-jealousy, half-pride.
She pretends she doesnât notice when his jaw clenches at the way she talks to other boys. She notices. Of course she does.
Part of her even likes it. Not because she wants to hurt him, but because it proves he feels something.
And thatâs what sheâs afraid of the mostâthat theyâre both feeling everything but too scared to say it first.
She tells herself she doesnât care. That itâs casual. That theyâre both just using each other to pass time. But then he touches her like sheâs something fragile. Kisses her like sheâs the last girl left on earth. Says her name like a promise and a prayer.
And she canât lie to herself anymore.
She cares. More than she should. More than she knows how to handle.
But she doesnât know how to do this. How to be soft for someone. How to need someone and not flinch from it.
So she keeps the game alive. She flirts. She lets the other boys look. Lets them lean in too close, laugh too long. Just to keep her armor intact. Just to prove to herself that she can still walk away if she needs to.
But every time, she comes back to him.
The boy with the tired eyes and quiet fury. The boy who lets her in without asking for too much. The boy who holds her like heâs afraid sheâll disappear, but never tries to make her stay.
And maybe thatâs what breaks her.
Because for the first time, she doesnât want to leave. And she doesnât know how to stay. Not without giving something up. Not without giving everything.
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Itâs the kind of night that feels like it doesnât belong to anyone.
The castle is asleep. The moon hangs heavy in the sky, casting pale ribbons of silver across the stone corridors, painting shadows that flicker with the low burn of dying torches. The silence is thick and sacredâbroken only by the occasional creak of old wood or the far-off hoot of an owl. Itâs the sort of hour that makes even the loudest hearts quiet.
Sheâs alone in the common room, curled into the old sofa by the fire. The flames snap lazily, casting her in flickering gold. Her legs are drawn up beneath her, a blanket draped haphazardly over one knee, a forgotten book facedown beside her. She isnât reading. Not really. Sheâs just sitting. Breathing. Thinking too much and trying not to show it.
Sheâs wearing Theoâs jumper. Itâs oversized, sleeves half-swallowing her hands, collar stretched wide so it slouches off one shoulder. It smells like himâcigarettes and cinnamon, leather and something cold like night air. She tells herself she grabbed it because hers was damp. Because it was convenient. But she knows thatâs not true.
The truth is she misses him. Even when she wonât say it.
And as if summoned by the thought, the door creaks open.
Theo steps in like the dark was built to follow him. Hands in his pockets, hair tousled, eyes sleepy. He pauses when he sees her, and something in his posture softensâjust a little. She watches him in the firelight, her chin tilted against the back of the couch, but she doesnât say anything. Doesnât need to.
He walks over slowly, like he doesnât want to disturb the hush between them, and sinks into the space beside her. Not too close. Not at first.
They sit there, quiet. Comfortable. The only sound is the pop of the fire and the whisper of fabric shifting as she reaches for her mug and brings it to her lips, letting the warmth bleed through her fingers.
âYouâre up late,â he says finally, voice low and hoarse with sleep.
A lazy smile tugs at his mouth. âTouchĂŠ.â
She lets her head fall against the back of the couch and turns her face to him. Heâs watching the fire like itâs holding a secret. Like it might say something if he waits long enough.
âYou look tired,â she says softly.
He glances at her, eyes half-lidded. âYou look dangerous.â
Her lips curve. âYou always say that.â
âDoesnât make it less true.â
Thereâs a beat, and then she laughs, quiet and genuine. The kind of laugh that only happens when she forgets to guard it.
âYouâre the only one who thinks that and still sits this close.â
âIâm not scared of you.â
He looks at her then. Really looks. And his gaze is warm and steady and maddening in the way it always isâlike he sees through all the armor, all the smirks and sharp edges, and isnât afraid of whatâs underneath.
âIâm not,â he says again.
And for a second, the fire crackles a little louder. The air thickens. She forgets what she was going to say.
So instead, she shifts closer.
She rests her head against his shoulder, slow and deliberate. Her fingers brush his, hesitant, like theyâre asking a question. He answers without wordsâthreading his fingers through hers, hand warm and familiar. And for the first time all day, her chest feels quiet.
And when he turns just enough to rest his chin on the top of her head, she closes her eyes.
Because she doesnât have to perform. Doesnât have to dazzle or destroy.
And she thinks maybeâjust maybeâthis is what it feels like to belong. Not to the room. Not to the world. Just to this moment. Just to him.
And she thinks maybe thatâs enough.
It starts with a whisper.
Someone says they saw her in the courtyard with a Ravenclaw boyâlaughing, leaning too close, hand on his chest. Someone else says she was seen slipping out of the Astronomy Tower at dawn, shoes in hand, hair tousled, looking smug.
Sheâs always been a wildfire of rumors and lipstick, known for leaving boys dizzy and half-ruined behind her. But this timeâit sticks.
Because itâs her, and itâs now, and itâs him.
Of course he doesnât. Thatâs not the kind of boy he is. He just looks at her a little less, talks a little quieter, keeps his distance like her skinâs turned to flame. Like the version of her he let into his arms has suddenly vanished.
She notices. She always does.
He avoids her for two days. She lets him. Pretends not to care even though her stomach feels like itâs full of glass every time he walks past without looking at her.
Itâs late againâlike it always is between them. No one else around. Just shadows and silence and a hallway thick with unspoken things.
Heâs walking out of the library when sheâs walking in, and for once, neither of them moves.
And then it justâspills.
âYouâre mad at me,â she says, arms crossed, mouth tugged into that defiant smirk she uses when sheâs scared of being hurt.
âIâm not mad.â His voice is low. Flat.
He looks at her. Really looks at her. âNothing. Just realized Iâm not special.â
She scoffs, because thatâs easier. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âYou donât change. Not for anyone.â Heâs tired. Angry. Hurt in that quiet, careful way he always is. âOne day youâre in my bed and the next youâre in someone elseâs lap like it means nothing.â
âI wasnâtââ she stops herself. Exhales hard. âIs that what you think?â
âI think Iâm the idiot who thought maybe you felt something.â
He moves to walk past her, but she catches his sleeve. Holds it tight.
Itâs the first time sheâs said it out loud. The words taste raw, like scraped knees and blood. She doesnât know whatâs more terrifyingâadmitting it, or meaning it.
She steps closer, close enough to smell his cologne, to feel the tension vibrating off his skin.
âI didnât flirt with anyone,â she says, voice low, steady. âI didnât touch anyone. I didnât even look at anyone else, Theo. Not since you.â
He doesnât answer right away. Just watches her like heâs trying to decide if he can trust her. If he should.
âIâm not good at this,â she whispers. âI donât know how to be soft. I donât know how to show it without ruining everything. But Iââ her voice catches. âI care about you. I donât know what the hell that means yet, but I do.â
He kisses her like itâs the first time all over again.
Slow, aching, like heâs afraid to break herâor maybe afraid sheâll vanish if he opens his eyes. Her hands clutch at his jumper, holding on like gravity means nothing compared to him.
When they break apart, she doesnât let go.
She keeps her forehead pressed to his, breath unsteady, heart pounding. Thereâs a tremble in her fingers, not from fear, but from the unbearable truth sheâs been carrying for too long.
âI donât want anyone else,â she whispers, voice cracked and fierce. âI know I act like I donât care. Like Iâm some walking storm who canât be touchedâbut I do, Theo. I care so much it makes me sick.â
He doesnât speak. Just looks at her like sheâs the only person in the world.
She keeps going, because now that itâs started, she canât stop.
âI look at you and I forget how to breathe. I hate how much I want to be around you. How much it hurts when you pull away. Iâm scared out of my mind because Iâve never felt like this before and I donât know how to be enough for you.â
He swallows hard, eyes burning.
âYou are,â he says, hoarse. âYou are enough. More than enough. Youâre all I think aboutâevery time you laugh, or walk into a room, or even look at me. Iâve been falling since the first time you smiled at me like you already knew Iâd break.â
She exhales, a soft, choked sound thatâs half-sob, half-laugh. âYou did break.â
He nods. âAnd Iâd do it again. Every time. If itâs you.â
All the bruised hearts and whispered fears. All the longing and the looks across crowded rooms. All the unfinished sentences and almost-confessionsâthey collapse between them like waves crashing after the storm.
He pulls her into his chest, and she lets him. Wraps her arms around his waist and buries her face in his neck, holding him like sheâs terrified of letting go.
But maybe now, she wonât have to.
Because for the first time, there are no masks. No games. Just themâmessy, real, and bleeding feelings all over the floor.
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Itâs not a sudden thing.
Thereâs no grand declaration, no moment where she wakes up and decides to become someone softer. She doesnât trade in her red lipstick or the way she walks like the hallway was built for her. She still laughs too loudly in the library and rolls her eyes when boys try to flirt with her. She still wears danger like perfume.
But Theo sees the shift in the quiet spaces.
Itâs in the way she waits for him after class, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, pretending like sheâs not waiting. In the way she reaches for his hand now without thinking, lacing their fingers together and tugging him along through the corridors like he belongs to her.
She still doesnât say sweet things out loud, but she writes her name next to his in the margins of her textbooks. She steals his scarf when itâs cold and leaves half her things in his dorm. She texts him âyouâre annoyingâ when she means âI miss you.â
And Theoâhe notices everything.
The way her smile goes softer when itâs just the two of them. The way she pulls his head into her lap and runs her fingers through his hair while pretending to be bored. The way she leans into his side during movie nights and always, always finds him first in a crowded room.
Sheâs still a little reckless. Still a little wild. But thereâs something gentler in the way she looks at him nowâlike sheâs letting herself believe in this. In him. In them.
One night, theyâre sitting by the window in his dorm, legs tangled up, the world outside dark and rainy. Sheâs wearing his hoodie, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, her fingers absently tracing circles on his knee.
Heâs talking about something mundaneâPotions or Quidditch, she doesnât really know. Sheâs not listening.
Sheâs just looking at him.
And it hits her, all at once, like a punch to the ribs.
She feels it. Something. A heavy, weightless thing inside her chest that keeps her tethered to him. The way she canât get enough of him. The way her mind always drifts back to him, like a magnet.
She doesnât know how to say it. Doesnât even have the words for it. But she knowsâthereâs no question.
So she says the closest thing she can muster.
âYouâre different,â she murmurs, the words slipping out before she can stop them. âYou make me feelââ She pauses, unsure. âLess⌠like I need to be someone else.â
Theo looks down at her, confusion flashing across his face. âWhat do you mean?â
She bites her lip, looking away. âLike⌠I donât have to keep pretending when Iâm with you. I donât have to play the game.â
His chest tightens. His gaze softens. âYou donât have to, Y/N. Not with me.â
And for a moment, neither of them moves. Thereâs nothing but the sound of their breathing, the rhythm of their hearts syncing up. She feels exposed, but she doesnât want to look away. She doesnât want to break this. Not when it feels like the pieces are finally falling into place.
Her fingers curl around his hand, holding it a little tighter. âYou make everything seem⌠easier,â she adds quietly. âLike maybe itâs okay to just be.â
He nods, eyes warm as he squeezes her hand. âMaybe thatâs the best part about us.â
She wants to say more. Wants to tell him how much it meansâhow much he means. But she stops herself, because the words feel too big, too raw, to be spoken yet.
Instead, she presses her forehead to his shoulder, closing her eyes, feeling the steady pulse of him under her palm.
For the first time in a long while, she feels like maybe this is enough. Like theyâre enough, even without those big declarations.
And for the first time in forever, she lets herself stay.
The night feels like itâs been drawn out forever. The tension between them is thick, suffocating, like a promise waiting to be kept. The soft murmur of voices in the background, the flickering light of the candle between themâit all feels distant now. All that matters is the space between their lips, the heat in their touches.
Sheâs lying next to him on his bed, the covers tangled around their legs. Heâs close enough for her to feel his breath, for her pulse to race with every shift of his body. She can tell heâs waiting for herâwaiting for something, but neither of them says a word. They donât need to.
Theoâs fingers brush her cheek, just light enough to make her skin tingle. He traces a line from her jaw to her neck, the touch slow, deliberate, making her eyes flutter closed. Her breath catches in her throat, and for the first time, she feels everything. Every inch of him, the weight of his gaze, the way his thumb brushes over her lips like heâs studying her.
âY/NâŚâ His voice is rough, like heâs fighting something. Fighting himself. âAre you sure?â
Itâs a question, but itâs not. She knows what heâs asking, and the answer is clear.
She pulls him closer, her fingers threading through his hair as she presses her lips to his, soft at first. But the moment their mouths meet, itâs like all the walls theyâve built come crumbling down. Thereâs no more hesitation, no more playing games. Thereâs only the need to be closer, to feel everything.
Theo deepens the kiss, his hands sliding down her back, pulling her into him like he canât get close enough. She responds in kind, her hands roaming over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat. The way he makes her feel alive, like nothing else matters but this moment.
Her hands slip under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, and it makes her stomach tighten. Sheâs never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, but itâs different with him. It doesnât scare herânot like it should. With him, it feels like sheâs finally allowed to be herself, without the fear of losing control.
Theo breaks the kiss, his eyes dark and intense, searching hers for something. She doesnât have to ask whatâshe knows.
He takes a breath, his hands sliding gently up her waist, and for a moment, itâs as if the world stands still. Theyâre both nervousânervous in the way theyâve never allowed themselves to be before, but neither of them wants to back away now. Not when theyâre this close. Not when the pull between them is undeniable.
âI donât want to hurt you,â he says, his voice low, almost a whisper.
âYou wonât,â she says, her fingers trailing down his chest to the hem of his shirt, tugging it off slowly. âWeâll be fine.â
And then, in a rush of anticipation, their lips meet again. The world fades into the background, and all that exists is the feeling of him against her, his hands gentle but insistent as they explore, as if this is the first time theyâve ever touched. The first time theyâve ever really been together.
Every touch is careful but hungry, as if theyâve been waiting for this, waiting for the permission to let go. Their movements are slow at first, unsure, but soon enough, they find a rhythmâa pulse that matches the beating of their hearts.
The night is quiet, save for the soft sounds of their breathing, the rustle of the sheets, and the occasional whispered name. Thereâs no rushing. No need for words, no need for anything other than the way they fit together.
In the end, theyâre tangled in each other, breathless and spent, hearts racing in the quiet of the room. She buries her face in his chest, her fingers tracing the contours of his skin as if she wants to memorize every inch of him. His arm wraps around her, pulling her closer, holding her like sheâs something fragile.
âYouâre still you,â he says softly, his fingers running through her hair.
She smiles into his chest, feeling the weight of his words. Itâs not a question anymore. Not for either of them. Theyâre both here, together, in a way they never were before.
âYeah,â she murmurs, âI am.â
And maybe, just maybe, sheâs starting to think that maybeâjust maybeâbeing with him doesnât have to mean losing herself. Maybe it means finding a version of herself she never knew existed.
And for once, sheâs not scared.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââââââ
The rumors spread like wildfire.
Y/N wasnât sure when it startedâwhen the first whispers snaked their way through the halls, but it didnât take long before she started hearing it. At first, it was just a casual comment here and there. Someone mentioning it at lunch. A passing joke in the corridors. It didnât mean anything, right? Just noise. She could handle noise.
But then, there it wasâclearer, louder, inescapable.
Theodore had told his friends.
No. Theodore had told everyone.
It wasnât just that they had shared somethingâsomething personal, something private. No, it was the details. The fact that heâd made it sound like some sort of triumph, a notch on his belt. Heâd told them the whole damn thingâeverythingâand somehow, it made it feel so⌠public.
The rumors spread, and soon enough, it wasnât just the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws gossiping behind their hands. Even the Slytherinsâhis own house, his friendsâhad joined in.
She tried to ignore it at first. She tried to tell herself it didnât matter, that they had their own thing, and everyone else could stay out of it. But that didnât last long.
Her temper flared when she overheard one of the girls from the year above her snickering in the library.
âI heard he told his mates. Said it was the best he ever had.â
Y/N couldnât sit still. She felt the anger bubble up in her chest, hot and uncontrollable. Her hands were shaking, her breath coming faster.
Theo sat on the edge of his bed in the quiet of the common room, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress as his thoughts swirled around like a storm he couldnât stop. He had always been reckless, always acted on impulse, but never had it come crashing down like this. Y/N had walked in, her eyes sharp, like daggers aimed directly at him, and before he knew it, they were at each otherâs throats.
She stood in front of him now, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her face a mask of fury.
âYou told them.â Her voice was low, controlled, but it only made him more nervous. The calm before the storm.
Theoâs throat tightened. He knew exactly what she was talking about, but he refused to admit it outright. âI didnât mean for it to get out like that, Y/N. I didnât think theyâdââ
âDonât you dare,â she cut him off, her eyes flashing. âDonât you dare make it sound like itâs my fault. You went running to your little friends and told them everything. Youââ Her breath hitched, frustration and hurt flooding her voice. âYou couldnât even keep it between us for one bloody day, could you?â
Theoâs jaw clenched, and he stood up, his movements sharp. âI didnât tell everyone. It wasnât supposed to be like this. I thought⌠I thought maybe theyâd understand.â
âUnderstand what?â she spat, taking a step forward. âThat youâve turned me into some sort of joke? Is that what you wanted? To make it sound like youâre some big man who bagged the untouchable girl? Is that what this was?â
His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist before she could take another step away from him. âYou think thatâs what this is?â His voice was strained, teeth gritted. âYou think Iâm proud of the way things turned out? You think I wanted anyone to know what happened? No, Y/N, thatâs not what this is. But I couldnât justâcouldnât hide it, okay?â
She jerked her wrist away from his grip, her breath quickening with anger. âYou should have. You think just because weâbecause weâre togetherâbecause of what happened, itâs some sort of thing you can tell your friends and let them spread it around like some stupid rumor? You think thatâs okay?â
âWhy are you making this about me?â he growled, his eyes flashing dark. âWhy is it always my fault? Youâre the one who keeps everyone at armâs length, Y/N! You flirt with anyone who looks at you, and then when I get close, you act like Iâm the one whoâs ruined everything! I tried, alright? I didnât know how to handle you, how to make thisâusâanything real!â
She stumbled back as if his words had slapped her across the face. âSo thatâs what this is about? Youâre mad because Iâm not perfect for you?â she scoffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. âYou canât stand the fact that Iâm not just yours to control, Theo. You think youâre the only one with problems here? You think youâre the only one whoâs trying?â
His face hardened, the words stuck in his throat. âIâm not trying to control you, Y/N. Iâm trying toââ He cut himself off, shaking his head in frustration. âI donât even know anymore. I donât know how to deal with this. How to deal with you.â
She blinked, the pain showing in her eyes now. It wasnât just anger anymoreâit was something deeper. Something raw. âMaybe you donât. Maybe you never will.â
The room seemed to shrink around them. The silence hung thick in the air between them, neither one willing to back down. He wanted to say something, wanted to reach out and fix it, but it felt like there was a wall between them, one she had built long before he ever stepped into her life.
Theoâs chest heaved as he took a step closer, his voice quieter now, but still fierce. âYou donât get it, do you? I donât care about the stupid rumors. I donât care about what anyone else thinks. I care about you.â
She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. âIf you cared about me, you wouldnât have done this. You wouldnât have put me in the position where I feel like Iâm the one to blame.â
Theoâs hands trembled as he ran them through his hair, trying to find the words to fix it, to make her understand. âIâm not blaming you. Iâm just⌠I just donât know how to make this work. I donât know what you want from me anymore.â
Her eyes softened for just a moment, but the guard went back up immediately, as though she couldnât let herself be vulnerable in front of him. âMaybe I donât know either,â she whispered, her voice hoarse. She stepped back, her hand resting against the doorframe, almost as if she was preparing to leave. âMaybe this was a mistake, Theo.â
His heart dropped at the finality in her tone, the way she made it sound like everything between them could be wiped away with just one more argument. âDonât say that,â he pleaded, his voice rough. âPlease.â
But she only looked at him for a long moment, her eyes unreadable, before turning and walking out of the room. The door clicked shut behind her, and Theo was left standing alone in the silence, the weight of the argument crashing down on him like a tidal wave.
The next few days felt like an eternity. Every glance from Theo sent a wave of guilt and confusion crashing over Y/N. She couldnât escape him. He was everywhereâhis eyes, his presence, the silence that filled the spaces between them when they passed each other in hallways, in the library, or across the courtyard. Every time their paths crossed, she felt the weight of the unsaid words, the unresolved anger, and the aching desire to fix everything.
It wasnât until late one evening, when the castle had quieted down, that she found herself standing outside his dorm door. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, the nerves bubbling up in her stomach. She had no idea what she was going to say or how to even begin. But she knew one thingâshe couldnât let this hang between them any longer.
She knocked. Once. Twice. Her breath was shallow, a mix of anxiety and hope.
Theo opened the door slowly, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark. His hair was messy, like heâd been running his hands through it all day, and for a second, it felt like no time had passed at all. They were back in that same spaceâawkward, unsureâbut neither of them willing to walk away.
âIâŚâ Y/N started, but the words felt too heavy. She swallowed, her fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve. âI just⌠Iâm sorry.â
Theo didnât speak right away, his gaze flickering between her eyes and the floor, his jaw tight. But then he stepped aside, wordlessly inviting her in. The moment was so simple, so quietly tense, yet it felt like they were both holding their breath, waiting for something to happen.
She walked in, her boots clicking softly against the stone floor. She didnât sit down. Instead, she stood there for a moment, watching him, hoping the silence between them would break, would give her some kind of answer.
Theoâs voice was low, almost hesitant. âI shouldnât have told them, Y/N. I know that. I⌠I didnât think it through.â
Her eyes met his, and for the first time in days, she didnât see the frustration, the defensiveness. She saw regret. And something elseâvulnerability, the kind he never showed. The kind he only let out when he was really, truly sorry.
âI shouldnât have gotten so angry,â she murmured, her gaze softening. âI let my pride get in the way. But itâs not just about the rumors, Theo. Itâs about what we were. What we are. And youâre rightâI didnât let you in. I never do. Iâm sorry for that.â
Theo took a step forward, his eyes never leaving hers. His voice was steady now, but there was a tenderness in it that surprised her. âYou think I didnât know that? You think I didnât feel the walls you put up? I was just trying to figure it out, Y/N. Trying to make sense of something that doesnât make sense. And I messed it up.â
Y/N shook her head, her heart aching. âNo. I messed it up too. I pushed you away. I didnât want to let anyone in, not even you. But I care about you, Theo. And Iâm not going to let this ruin what we have. I canât.â
The words were a relief, almost like a weight had lifted off her shoulders. She was tired of fighting it, tired of pretending. She wanted to be soft with him, wanted to believe that they could be more than just a mistake, more than just a game.
Theo stepped closer, his hands reaching out tentatively, as if unsure of how far he could push her. But she met him halfway, letting him close the distance. She could feel the heat of his body, the rawness of the moment. His hands brushed her arms lightly, and his voice was barely above a whisper. âI donât want to fight anymore. I just want you.â
Y/Nâs breath caught in her throat, the vulnerability in his words making her heart skip. She could feel everything she was too afraid to say, everything she had held back, swirling between them.
âI donât want to fight either,â she whispered back, her fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. âBut I donât want to lose you, Theo. Not over something stupid.â
He smiled then, small and soft, the corners of his eyes crinkling like he was holding back something more. His hands cupped her face, gently, like she might break. âYou wonât lose me, Y/N. Iâm not going anywhere.â
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/N let herself believe it. She closed her eyes, leaning into the warmth of his touch, the safety he provided. Maybe they didnât have all the answers. Maybe theyâd make mistakes along the way. But thisâright nowâwas enough.
As his lips brushed against hers, slow and tentative, the world outside of this moment seemed to disappear. The argument, the hurt, the doubtâit all faded, leaving only the undeniable truth between them.
Theoâs jealousy had always been thereâan undercurrent, something he could feel but not quite name. But lately, it was starting to bubble to the surface, darker and more unrelenting. It didnât help that Y/N seemed oblivious to it, or maybe she just didnât care, or maybe she didnât notice how much it was eating at him.
He told himself it wasnât a big dealâjust her usual flirtations, her way of making everyone around her feel like they were the most important person in the room. But every time she laughed too easily at someone elseâs joke, every time she touched another boyâs arm or leaned in a little too close, the knot in his chest tightened.
He wasnât supposed to care. She wasnât his. But it felt like she was slipping away. Slipping away, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. And the worst part was, he couldnât even bring himself to say anything, because he didnât want to sound possessive. But every time another guy looked at her like she was the sun, his hands curled into fists.
He was standing by the window one late afternoon when he saw her walking down the corridor, talking animatedly to some guy he didnât even recognize. Theoâs gaze narrowed as the boy laughed, brushing his hand against her shoulder casually.
That familiar knot twisted in Theoâs stomach. His eyes followed them, unblinking, until they stopped near a set of classrooms, and the guy lingered too close. The way Y/N smiled up at him, that little tilt of her headâTheo felt the heat rise in his chest, a sharp and possessive burn that he couldnât ignore.
She wasnât his. But damn it, it felt like she was.
He stormed out of the room before he could think better of it. He found her a few moments later, still talking to the guy, laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world. She caught sight of him then, her eyes lighting up in that way she only did when she saw him.
âHey!â she called, but Theo didnât say anything. He just walked straight toward her, his steps quick, his jaw set tight.
âHi,â she greeted, her smile faltering when she noticed the tension in his posture. âWhatâs up?â
âWhoâs that?â Theoâs voice came out too harsh, too blunt. His eyes flickered to the boy beside her, who looked slightly uncomfortable now, clearly aware of the sudden shift in the atmosphere.
âOh,â Y/N glanced at him and then back to Theo. âHeâs justââ
âJust?â Theo repeated, his voice rising, frustration leaking through. âHeâs just touching you, laughing with you, like everythingâs fine. Like youâreââ He cut himself off, his words feeling too sharp, too jagged. He couldnât make sense of it. âWhy do you keep doing this?â
Y/Nâs brow furrowed, and she stepped back slightly. âTheo, what the hell are you talking about?â
âYou flirt with everyone, Y/N,â he shot back, taking a step closer, unable to stop himself. âYou make them feel like theyâre the only one in the room. And it drives me crazy.â
Y/Nâs eyes widened at the intensity in his voice. She opened her mouth to respond but snapped it shut when she saw the way his chest was rising and falling, the raw emotion in his face. She had never seen him like this beforeânever seen him so⌠possessive.
âIâm not doing anything,â she said, her voice more careful now. âIâm just talking to people. You know that, right?â
âI donât care,â Theo growled, running a hand through his messy hair in frustration. âI donât care what youâre doing. Itâs the way you do it. Like you donât see me standing there. Like you donât even care how it makes me feel.â
Y/Nâs heart raced in her chest as she took a step back. His words stung more than she wanted to admit. She had never seen him so raw, so vulnerable in his anger. It terrified her, but she wasnât sure if she was more scared of him or of herself.
âYouâre being ridiculous, Theo,â she snapped, her voice quieter now, but still sharp. âYou canât just control who I talk to. Iâm not your property, and I donât answer to you. Iâm not some trophy you can justââ
âIâm not trying to control you,â he interrupted, his eyes burning with intensity. âBut you keep pushing me away, and then you flirt with everyone else, and then expect me to justâjust sit there and watch? You donât get to do that and then act like Iâm the problem, Y/N.â
Her stomach twisted. She wanted to say something to make him understand. She wanted to tell him that she didnât flirt because she wanted to hurt him, that she didnât mean to make him feel insignificant. But every time she tried, the words tangled in her throat.
âIâm not doing this with you,â she said, her voice trembling slightly despite herself. She turned on her heel, heading in the opposite direction.
âY/N,â Theo called after her, but she didnât stop. She didnât turn back. She couldnât.
And so they both stood there, broken and confused, each one wrestling with their own insecurities and pride, neither knowing how to bridge the gap that had widened between them.
Not late enough to be suspicious, but just past the hour when the castle had begun to quiet, when voices had faded to murmurs and footsteps grew rare in the corridors. The kind of hour when you could still pretend you werenât waiting for someone, even if you were.
Y/N had been sitting cross-legged on her bed, pretending to read, the same paragraph re-read so many times the words didnât even register anymore. She wasnât expecting him. Not really. Not after everything.
But when she heard the soft, almost hesitant knock, her breath caught.
There was only one person it could be.
She didnât answer right away. Just stared at the door like it might open on its own. Like maybe heâd get tired and go away, and she wouldnât have to face whatever apology heâd strung together in his dorm, pacing with that anxious, unshakable frustration that only Theo Nott seemed capable of turning into silence.
But then his voice came, low and rough through the door.
Something cracked open in her chest.
When she opened it, he looked⌠not broken, but worn. Hollowed out, like the anger had burnt itself out and left him standing in the ashes. His hands were shoved deep in the pockets of his jumper, his mouth pressed into a thin, unreadable line. There were shadows under his eyes, like he hadnât slept.
They stood there for a second. Two people who had once known how to touch each other without flinching, suddenly strangers in the quiet.
âI shouldnât have said what I did,â he said. âAny of it.â
She stayed in the doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest, guarding herself from something she wasnât sure would ever stop hurting. âYou didnât believe me.â
âI didnât believe myself,â he admitted, gaze flicking to the floor. âItâs not you. Itâs⌠me not knowing how to deal with the fact that I finally care about someone enough to lose them.â
The air between them felt fragile. Like if she moved too quickly, it might all collapse.
âI donât know how to be that person, Y/N,â Theo added, more quietly. âThe one who feels something real and doesnât ruin it out of fear.â
She swallowed. âYou made me feel small. Like I had to prove myself to you.â
âI know,â he said. âAnd I hate that I did that. Because if thereâs anyone in the world who doesnât need to prove a damn thing, itâs you.â
Her throat tightened. âThen why did you act like I wasnât enough?â
âI was scared I wasnât enough for you.â He looked up then, and there was no anger in his eyes anymore. Just regret. Exhaustion. Wanting. âYouâre⌠everything, Y/N. You always have been.â
She exhaled, shaky. Still standing in the doorway, still unsure if she could let herself believe it.
âIâm still mad at you,â she said softly.
âThatâs okay,â Theo replied. âIâll still be here. Even if you are.â
It wasnât a grand gesture. There were no flowers, no apologies scrawled in ink. Just Theo, standing there with his hands clenched in his sleeves, waiting for her to let him back in.
And she didnât kiss him. She didnât even touch him. But she opened the door a little wider. And that was enough.
It didnât happen all at once.
There was no single moment where things magically fixed themselves, no sudden epiphany where they both swore off old habits and became the people they were meant to be. Instead, their healing came slowlyâquietly. In pieces, in practice. Like learning how to breathe all over again.
Not because they stopped feeling things, but because they started learning how to say them before they festered. Before they turned into poison behind their teeth. Theo still had jealousy stitched into his ribs, but he started telling her when it hurt instead of pretending it didnât. And Y/Nâshe stopped pretending she didnât notice.
âI donât want you to stop being you,â he told her once, the morning after a long night of tangled sheets and whispered apologies. âI just want to know you still choose me, even when everyone else wants you too.â
She didnât answer with words. Just pressed her forehead to his and let her hands rest over his chest, where his heart beat fast and fragile beneath her touch. That was the thing about Theoâhe wore his softness underneath all that sharpness. She was starting to learn how to hold it gently.
Y/N changed in little ways. Not because he asked her to, but because she wanted to. Not out of shame or pressureâbut trust. She still wore her skirts too short and her eyeliner too bold, still walked into rooms like she owned the walls and the air inside them. But sometimes, now, she left her parties early. Chose to sit with him in quiet corners, their knees brushing under the table, fingers loosely intertwined. She didnât flirt less, not really, but she made it clearer than ever that she was already spoken forâand not just in name.
And Theoâhe softened. Slowly. Awkwardly. But it was real. He started bringing her coffee on the mornings he knew she hadnât slept. Started rubbing small circles into her knee when she got anxious, even when she tried to hide it. He kissed her less like he was trying to brand her and more like he wanted to stay.
They still fought, sometimes.
But now, they always found their way back.
There were no ultimatums. No need to define every piece of what they were. But there was understanding. There was effort. There was trying, even when it was hard.
One night, while the rest of the castle slept, they lay side by side in Theoâs bed, the moonlight slipping between the curtains and painting pale lines across the blankets. Her head rested on his chest, and his arm was wrapped loosely around her waist. He wasnât asleepâhe never really slept when she was with him. Just listened to her breathing, steady and soft.
She whispered, barely loud enough to hear, âI think Iâm better when Iâm with you.â
And he, half-asleep and fully in love, murmured back, âSame.â
That was the thing about them.
Theyâd been fire and ice and chaos and ruinâbut now, they were learning how to be quiet. How to stay. How to choose each other, again and again.
Especially on the hard days.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââââââ
It wasnât supposed to explode like this.
But it didâugly and loud and too late to stop. The kind of argument that didnât leave room for recovery, not without something breaking in the process.
She was pacing, arms crossed tight across her chest, jaw clenched so hard it ached. And Theo stood in the middle of the room like a storm bottled too long, his hands balled into fists at his sides.
âYou told them?â she snapped, eyes blazing. âYou told your friends about usâabout meâlike Iâm some fucking trophy?â
Theo scoffed, voice laced with disbelief. âI didnât tell them anything real. They guessed. It was a stupid conversation and I didnâtââ
âYou didnât what?â she cut in, bitter. âDidnât think? Didnât care? Do you know how it felt to walk into the Great Hall and hear my name being passed around like gossip? Like Iâm just some story you get to brag about?â
He stepped toward her. âYou think I wanted that? That I wanted everyone to know something that was just ours?â
âThen why didnât you shut it down?â she hissed. âWhy didnât you defend me?â
âBecause I was angry!â he shouted. âBecause I thought maybe you didnât care! Youâve been pulling away for weeks and Iââ He stopped himself, dragging a hand down his face. âI felt like I was the only one who gave a shit anymore.â
Her expression crumpled for a secondâjust oneâand then hardened again.
âYou donât get to spin this around on me. You donât get to slut-shame me with your fucking silence and then cry about being insecure.â
âI didnât slut-shame you!â he barked. âGod, listen to yourselfâthis isnât just about what happened. Youâre pissed because I made you feel seen. Because I let people know that youâre not untouchable. That you let me in.â
Her eyes flashed. âThatâs not yours to share, Theo. Thatâs me. My body. My trust. You donât get to weaponize it just because youâre scared I donât love you the way you love me.â
And there it wasâlaid out like a raw nerve between them.
He stared at her. Broken open. Bleeding fury and guilt and longing.
âI donât know how to love you,â he said lowly, voice cracking. âYou make me feel like Iâm drowning, Y/N. Every day. You flirt with people like Iâm not there, you pull away when I get too close, and I still fucking chase after you like some idiot who thinks youâll stay.â
âAnd maybe I wouldâve,â she whispered, venom softening into something brittle. âIf you hadnât made me feel small the second things got real.â
âDo you know what itâs like to give a piece of yourself to someone youâre terrified of losing?â she said. âI did that. I gave you that. And you let it become a fucking joke.â
He stepped back like sheâd slapped him.
The silence this time was unbearable.
Then she grabbed her bagâhands shaking, eyes wet but furiousâand moved to the door.
âYou broke this,â she said.
And Theo just stood there.
Staring at the space where she used to be.
Still reaching for her in the silence.
Still waiting for a door that wouldnât open again.
The thing no one tells you about heartbreak is that itâs not loud. Not really. Itâs a quiet unraveling. A hundred tiny aches instead of one clean break.
For Theo, the days bleed together. His friends notice the differenceâheâs moodier, snappier, like a wire stretched too tight. He parties more now, but it doesnât feel the same. The laughter never sticks. The girls donât mean anything. He doesnât even want them. Not really.
Because none of them touch him like she did. None of them look at him like they know every version of himâlike theyâve seen the soft parts, the dark parts, the insecure, hollow partsâand stayed anyway.
He still walks past the library and sees her at their old table sometimes, hunched over parchment, twirling a quill between her fingers like she used to do while pretending not to smile at him. Only now thereâs no smile. Just focus. Just distance.
Sometimes, she feels him watching her.
And sometimes she looks up.
But she always looks away first.
She still hears his voice in her head. Still reaches for her phone when something happens she knows heâd laugh at. Still dreams of his hand on the small of her back, guiding her through crowds like she was something precious.
But thatâs the thingâhe did treat her like she was precious. And somewhere along the way, she forgot how to believe that. She ruined it before he could decide to stop choosing her.
And she hates herself for that.
She tries to move on, too. Lets a boy from Ravenclaw walk her to class. Lets another one flirt with her in Potions. But none of it matters. None of them are him. They donât make her stomach flip. They donât make her feel seen and complicated and real.
And itâs not like sheâs waiting.
But maybe, in some stupid part of her, she is.
Theo, meanwhile, still has nights where he wakes up thinking sheâs next to him. Still flinches at the sound of her laugh across the hall. Still avoids places where her perfume lingers.
He keeps replaying their last argument in his head. Over and over. Wondering what he couldâve said differently. What she needed to hear. What he shouldâve done instead of throwing his pride in her face.
Neither of them dates seriously. Everyone knows better than to ask. Hogwarts watches their unraveling like a slow-motion car crashâtragic, inevitable, impossible to look away from.
Theyâre both too proud. Too stubborn.
But the halls feel colder. The spaces between classes too long. The mornings too quiet. And neither of them has figured out how to breathe without the other yet. So they keep moving. Keep pretending. Keep aching.
Like two halves of a sentence that never got finished. Itâs not like he moved on with someone else.
Thereâs no Ravenclaw girl, no blonde distraction, no new name whispered down corridors in place of hers. Itâs worse than that.
He just stopped looking at her.
He stopped turning his head when she laughed too loud. Stopped lingering in doorways like maybe he was still waiting for her to follow. Stopped showing up late to class with his hair a mess and that tired, familiar look that said he hadnât slept. That heâd been thinking of her.
He justâlet go. Quietly. Without the dramatics, without the anger, without the messy in-between she always expected.
Thatâs what kills her the most. Because sheâs still stuck. Still haunted by everything unsaid. Still dreaming about him showing up at her door, saying he couldnât breathe without her. Still replaying every argument like she can undo it if she just remembers the right word, the right pause, the right way to ask him to stay.
Heâs with his friends again. Laughing. Studying. Walking through the halls like nothing ever happened. Like she was a chapter already closed. Not a cliffhanger.
But she sees it, sometimesâjust a flicker. The way his eyes find hers in a crowd, brief and unreadable. The way his hands twitch when they brush too close in Potions. The way he hesitates when he says her name like heâs trying not to choke on it.
She wonders if he still thinks of her at night. If he hears their song and skips it. If he keeps the bracelet she left behind. If he remembers the way she used to trace the veins in his hands like she was trying to memorize them. She doesnât talk about him. Not to anyone. But she carries him everywhere.
In the way she walks, a little slower now. In the way she flirts, less carelessly. In the way she avoids their old spots, like theyâre grave markers.
She misses him in quiet moments. The in-between ones. When the world slows down and her mask slips and no oneâs looking. Thatâs when it hurts the mostâbecause he was the only person who ever saw through the act.
And now he doesnât even try. No new girl. No new love. Just distance. Just silence. Just the hollow where he used to be.
Itâs been months, but it still feels like last week.
The exhaustion has piled up on top of her like too many bricks stacked high. Sheâs lost count of the nights she stayed up pretending to be fine. The ones she spent staring at the ceiling, replaying their last argument, feeling the weight of every word that came out of her mouth. The ones where she let herself drown in the silence, thinking sheâd somehow be okay. But it catches up.
One moment sheâs standing in the hallway, waiting for a professor to unlock the door to her next class, and the next, sheâs sinking into a chair, hands pressed to her face, a sudden wave of grief that crashes through her like a tidal wave. Sheâs shaking, heart too loud in her chest. She doesnât want to cry in front of anyone. Not again. So she bites her lip, forcing it back, but the tearsâso stupid, so desperateâwonât stop.
She locks herself in the bathroom a few minutes later, pacing back and forth in the cramped space, hating how weak she feels. How broken. How she let everything slip away. And the worst part? The worst part is that she doesnât even know how it got this bad.
She wants to fix it. She wants to find a way to go back to when they were okay, when they still had something real. When they were something more than a stupid, quiet mess of unresolved things.
Her phone buzzes on the sink counter, a constant reminder of how unheard sheâs been. She almost ignores it, but then itâs thereâhis name, just sitting there like a weight on her chest. Theo. Sheâs seen it a hundred times, seen his name in the contact list for months and never had the guts to press it.
She doesnât even think, just opens the message app, hands trembling as she types the words that feel like a confession, like an apology thatâs been sitting too long. Her thumb hovers for a moment before hitting send.
âi miss u, iâm sorry.â
The night stretches on, and sheâs still staring at the phone, willing it to light up. Every second that passes feels like hours. Every time it vibrates, her heart leaps, only to crash when she sees itâs not him.
But then, when sheâs almost convinced sheâs made a fool of herself, the screen flashes. Just one word.
She doesnât move. Her fingers hover over the phone, not sure if sheâs afraid to read it or if sheâs just too scared to hope.
Y/N, he says again, almost like heâs trying to fill the silence between them. The emptiness thatâs stretched for months. His next words come, quieter than she expected, as though heâs taking every syllable carefully.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââââââ
